Inversion
by TheFallenArchangel
Summary: Peter Bishop has been an FBI agent for about 2 years when Flight 627 lands and, after an accident, the only man who can save his partner won't talk. So now he's brought home rogue former-agent Olivia Dunham from Baghdad and gotten his father released from St. Claire's to help in saving his friend and getting information on those responsible.
1. Flight 627

**A/N: Hi there my lovelies. *cowers* Please, please, please don't kill me. I know I have about fifty thousand fics to finish and/or redo. I started watching Fringe on Netflix because I was bored and wasn't expecting too much from it. Needless to say I finished the entire show in a week and half. Then I read a few fanfics and came across one on another site that explored a plot in which Peter was an FBI agent and Olivia was on the run in Baghdad. Unfortunately the writing was illegible and the characters were wildly, wildly, wildly out of character. So I thought I'd do my own.**

**Disclaimer: They're JJ's toys. I just like to take 'em out of their box and play sometimes.**

* * *

_"This is an orchestration for an event. For a dance in fact. The participants will be apprised of their roles at the proper time. For now it is merely enough that they have arrived."_

_~Cormac McCarthy_

* * *

Whilst his original plan for the evening had included drinks celebrating a job well done with his partner, Peter Bishop found himself lounged out on the couch in the living room of his apartment. Some cheesy action movie with bad acting was on the TV as he drifted somewhere between consciousness and sleep. Truth be told, he was significantly closer to the latter. As an overly cheery woman appeared suddenly on the screen, smiling too big as she tried to sell some sort of indoor grill, he was jolted to full awareness by the noise of his cell phone ringing.

The shrill noise made him jump a little, his hand moving for a millisecond as if to reach for the gun that rested next to his badge and phone on the end table. Regaining sense of himself, he straightened up and reached toward the source of the sound, putting the phone to his ear and answering on the fifth ring.

"Bishop." He barely stifled a yawn as the voice of his superior informed him of a new case at Logan International Airport. It wasn't at all like they just closed a month long case six hours ago, they certainly didn't need sleep or anything. That would almost be too much. He sighed softly, shrugging on his black coat and reminding himself that he knew what he signed on for when he took an active field position. "Yeah.. yeah.. I'm leaving now.. Yessir." He hung up the phone as he closed the door and headed for the parking garage for his building.

* * *

The ride to the airport wasn't long, twenty minutes at most, and he located the security check for the runway relatively easily. The guard leaned into his window, wielding a flashlight and looking at him with unmasked skepticism. He pulled his badge from his pocket and held it up where he could see.

"Peter Bishop, FBI." He identified himself, left eye shutting as the too-bright beam crossed his face to check him in comparison to the photo on the ID. Apparently satisfied, the guard radioed in and waved him past the checkpoint. It took him about a half second flat to figure out where he was supposed to go, the light show of at least two dozen emergency vehicles a perfectly clear indicator.

There wasn't any actual word that could describe the scene, except perhaps chaos. Helicopters circled overhead like mechanical vultures, casting bright lights upon the fuselage. The noise from the motors seemed to be in direct competition with the wind that howled over the tarmac.

He'd barely made it out of the SUV when he passed by at least ten federal agents, dressed mostly in black or grey jackets and trench coats, all arguing protocol and jurisdiction in a big mass of testosterone fueled ego. He smirked as he heard a particularly snarky comment before making a point of dodging around the argument that seemed to be heating the chilled Boston air. Not much farther, and he was met with by Charlie Francis, the man who called him here in the first place, looking just as tired as himself.

"I see that inter-agency harmony, peace, and cooperation continues flawlessly." He remarked sarcastically, coming to a stop. "So, who's winning so far?" Charlie gave a small smile and shook his head, looking back to the squabble.

"Uhm.. so far? Langley's ahead by a nose." he replied, making Peter smirk a little bit, before refocusing his attentions on the reason they were there as they began walking toward the plane that was the reason they were here. "Flight out of Hamburg. A hundred and forty seven passengers. The towers lost contact about three hours in. They thought that it was probably electrical interference, apparently they were flying through a hell of a storm. Entered our airspace radio silent." Peter's brow furrowed a little as Charlie explained the circumstances of the incident, yelling over the noise of the helicopter and the wind. It was weird, that was for sure. "The Navy scrambled two F-18's for escort. They reported stains on the window but no life signs aboard."

Peter turned his attention away from the other agent and looked up to the plane, though it was too dark to see anything properly inside the cabin.

"Stains?" He asked, confused for a moment as to what could have stained out the windows. Charlie's answer, while what he was expecting in the realm of possibilities, made him feel just a little bit queasy.

"Blood."

"Oh, well isn't that lovely?" He remarked dryly. "But really, I'm surprised they let 'em land at all. Who was flying the plane? Autopilot?" Charlie nodded.

"Yeah. Programmed to land right on schedule, which it did. Unlike any plane I've ever been on in my life." He fought down a smirk as Peter took a step closer to the plane, focusing particularly on the windows before he turned to face his counterpart again.

"The windows aren't frozen." He stated, though it was more to himself and was at least partially a question.

"So?"

"Well, if the cabin had depressurized, then the windows would have frozen solid." he explained. "Which means that they didn't lose pressure in the air. Not that I really expected that would be the reason if there's blood on the windows.." He lapsed off into silence for a moment, halting himself before he could start rambling. "Have they opened the cabin?"

"No. The White House just approved the CDC's request to not open the cabin until they arrive." Charlie explained, before both of their attentions were drawn to a second SUV, this one silver, that pulled up not too far away.

A tall, somewhat lanky man with dark hair and glasses exited the vehicle, yelling something into his phone with obvious frustration before ending the call. As soon as he pocketed the device though, he grinned, approaching the other two with long strides. As he joined them, he looked over at a few people in navy blue jackets with yellow lettering.

"Aww.. Good old NTSB." He crooned with a playfully smug look on his face. "They like to pretend they're cops." While Charlie didn't seem too amused, he regarded the agent with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Agent Warren." He greeted impassively. The man, Agent Lucas Warren, nodded in acknowledgement.

"Agent Francis." He replied, before turning. "Agent Bishop." His voice was a slight bit warmer, a bit more familiar as he nodded hello to his partner. While Peter recognized that his partner had arrived, he turned back to the plane.

"Somebody had to have looked through the windows," He pointed out logically, "Or there wouldn't be confirmation of blood."

"Yeah.. CIA did." Charlie answered with a slight grimace. "Whatever the hell's in there made McNeary throw up in front of his whole unit." That couldn't help but to make Peter a bit anxious. From what he know of McNeary, nothing bothered the man. If this made him vomit.. Needless to say, his stomach twisted uncomfortably as he imagined the horrors that may lie within. Before anything else could be said, the trio's attention was drawn to a growing mass of people around a man they all recognized as Agent Phillip Broyles from DHS.

"Although this is a joint task force, this investigation will be run by the Department of Homeland Security." He announced loudly, making it quite clear that he was in charge and God help you if you didn't like it. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Broyles. D.C. has sent me here to make sure that we get results."

"I swear, if he puffed his chest out any more, he'd float away." Luke muttered quietly to Peter, who rolled his eyes but otherwise didn't respond.

"Standard level four hazmat suits are required to go in once our friends from Atlanta get here. Members from each agency on the starting line as follows- CIA, Baronoff. FBI, Charlie Francis and Peter Bishop. DHS, Pitts. Everyone else stand by. Okay, people, let's move!"

A few moments later, Peter and Charlie were suited up, as were the others designated to board the plane. While Lucas pouted by his car, clearly annoyed at the fact that he didn't get to go in. He looked, to Peter, like the little kid who got put in time out while everyone else was at recess. He couldn't say anything to him though, before he was called up to the airlock with the others. Tensions rose continuously until they got the okay and a CDC agent unlatched the door and pulled it open, the hiss of decompression the only thing they heard besides their breathing..

Peter supposed that the first thing he saw being blood spatter on the roof wasn't too great of a sign for what lay deeper within the cabin. The next thing he saw was a skeleton dripping goo that looked sickeningly like liquid flesh. Needless to say that made the bile rise in his throat. If he had thought that one was bad, it got worse the farther he went into the plane.

"What kind of terrorism is this?" Someone asked, and Peter was pretty sure he head Charlie mutter a few 'oh god's just behind him.

It was horrible. Countless bodies, skeletons with goop and skin clinging to them. At one point he had to close his eyes and take a steadying breath before continuing. They were all dead. Unrecognizable. Crumples of clothes laid in puddles of goop, blood, and bone. No wonder McNeary threw up.

Peter continued down the aisle, the slight mist in the air unsettling, grimacing as he took in the scene. Men, women, elderly, children. None had been spared. He felt a surge of revulsion as he saw what he recognized to be a young boy, not yet even a teenager. He ground his teeth together and continued forward. Many of them hadn't made it out of their seats, in fact it seemed as if the only ones who hadn't been sitting were the flight attendants. Except for one, a man, as far as he could tell, who was sprawled across the walkway.

"Hey Charlie?" He called over his shoulder, skirting around the man carefully, so as not to disturb anything.

"Yeah?" Came the muffled response from somewhere off the left.

"It was a full plane, right? No empty seats?"

"As far as I know, yeah." If he was curious as to Peter's train of thought, he didn't show it, only continued forward.

"Hmm.." Peter hummed to himself as he looked around, searching for an empty seat that might show where this man came from. He spotted it after a few seconds, and was surprised to see a briefcase, half open, laying on the ground next to the seat. He didn't touch it, their orders were not to, but he did lean over to get a glance at what was inside of it. It looked to be needles.

"Charlie." He said again, a slight curiosity in his tone at the possibility of a lead. "Can we get this guy in the aisle on the top of the list for identification?"

"Why? What's up?" He heard the sound of a hazmat suit coming up behind him and turned to face it.

"Well, it might be nothing, but this guy's the only one out of his seat."

"Maybe he was just on his way to the bathroom. That's all that's down that way." Charlie pointed out reasonably.

"Yeah, that's what I thought at first, but then I found his seat. Check this out." He stepped aside and motioned to the open briefcase and the needles splayed within it. "I'm pretty sure that's not FAA regulation."

* * *

A few hours later, and the mayhem at the airport seemed, at least to Peter, almost desirable. What had started as a 'central headquarters for the inter-agency task force' had turned into brain numbing pandemonium.

Paperwork covered everything; terminals, desks, chairs. There were even a few pages scattered across the floor. At least five phones seemed to be ringing at any given time, and if it wasn't ringing, someone was already on it, giving interviews. Those who didn't have their noses buried in paper were shouting theories - most of which were either completely ridiculous or impossible - across the room.

Several agents had their attentions glued to their terminals, squinting bleary eyed at the news feeds, CCTV footage, and plane manifests they reviewed for what was probably the fourth or fifth time. A large television hung on the wall, alternating every few minutes to different news channels, nearly all of which showed the footage of the plane being incinerated.

And in the middle of it all, like a beacon, was Agent Phillip Broyles. He was surrounded by agents, directing people and barking out orders like it was what he was born to do. A small shred of respect wormed its way into Peter as he seemed to take each inquiry in stride.

"So much for the absolute geniuses at the CDC." Lucas muttered somewhere behind him, and he turned around just in time to see his partner slam the phone back down. He rolled his eyes, before grabbing Charlie's attention as he walked by.

"Hey, have we gotten anywhere on the briefcase?" He asked, glancing down at the stack of papers in the senior agent's hand, as if it had the answers on the top for him to read. It was wishful thinking of course, but hoping for a break was all he could do at this point.

"Well. We got results. But you're not gonna like 'em. The needles are standard issue insulin. I checked out the guy registered to that seat. He was a diabetic."

Peter groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. It sucked when a lead turned out to be a dead end.

"Alright. Thanks Charlie."

A few moments later, he found himself approaching the center of the storm, Agent Broyles, and tried to put on his best 'respectable human being' face.

"Have we reviewed the camera footage from the Hamburg Airport to see if the passengers were showing any signs of illness before?"

"It's on it's way now." Broyles answered, before looking at someone over Peter's shoulder. "What the hell is taking so long with that black box!?"

"Another thing- who's point from CDC on the bone, tissue and air samples?" Peter asked, not saying what he wanted to, mainly due to the fact that the because he's obviously can't send a proper report at the end, went without saying.

"Agent Paley, do you want his home number?" Broyles snapped, and it was all he could do not to respond in kind. Instead, he bit his lip, made sure his voice was even, and took a deep breath before responding with a perfectly respectful reply.

"No, but I'd appreciate the whole report, not just this fax claiming that there's no known matches to t any known pathogen or airborne virus-" But before he could even finish, his sentence was cut off with a sarcastic remark that, had it been from anyone else, he would've probably applauded.

"We're on that too Bishop. We don't think what happened to these people was the result of the in-flight movie." As much as Peter may have wanted to give some smart assed retort, any comment he might've made was halted before he could say it by Charlie, who called over from one of the desks.

"Back Bay PD got a call at oh-three-hundred from a guard-on-duty at a storage facility who saw two – and I quote – "suspicious Middle Eastern men" handing a white guy a briefcase." Broyles nodded appreciatively, seeming more relieved than anything at getting what may be an actual lead instead of just chasing their own tails.

"That could be a purchase." Peter hypothesized, thinking out loud and putting the pieces together. Before he got much farther though, apparently somebody else had gotten there.

"So.. The plane might've been a demonstration of tech that they sold later that night?" One of the many agents piped up from behind one of the computer monitors. "It would make sense, not wanting to buy until they've got assurance that it'll work."

"Maybe, maybe not." Broyles interjected, not letting the agent get too far ahead of himself. "It's certainly not uncommon in underground weapons trade.." He trailed off thoughtfully, going silent for a moment or two, long enough for Peter to notice something up with his friend.

Perhaps it was nothing more than his imagination, but upon hearing the last three words of Agent Broyles' theory, Charlie had gone a bit stiff. Well, a lot stiff. Before he could question him however, Broyles had turned to him and started barking orders again in a way Peter couldn't help but to resent the hell out of.

"Bishop. You and your partner take it. Go find out." Though Luke stood from the paperwork he'd been looking at, Peter balked at the order.

"Take what?" He asked, a rebellious fire in his eyes. "You want us to go investigate that?" The room went silent, almost every agent stopping to stare. "No offense sir, but it's nothing concrete, and that's manpower that could be focused here-" Before he'd finished explaining himself, Broyles replied with a heavy dose of derision.

"Sounds like a big lead." He said, the cynicism practically dripping off his every word. "Two minutes ago, you had plenty of questions, now's your chance to ask them." Peter's fists tightened, his teeth clenched, and he had to take a few breaths to calm himself enough to speak without snarling. A moment later, he curled the corner of his lips into a smile.

"Would you like us to pick up your dry cleaning while we're at it?" Aside from Lucas looking mortified at being included in the 'us' and 'we', there were 'holy shit' looks from all around. It seemed as though something like that was what Broyles was expecting, because he smiled.

"That and a coffee." At this point, Peter looked ready to about lunge, and everyone could see it. Before he could do anything that would get him written up and suspended though, Luke laid a hand on his shoulder and gently began shepherding him away, refusing to look at Broyles.

* * *

The ride to the storage facility certainly seemed to calm Peter down. At least when they arrived he wasn't shaking with anger anymore. The way Luke saw it, that was a plus.

They stepped out of the government issue silver sedan, breath fogging in front of their faces and the snow crunching between their feet and the pavement. Luke went into the front office to inform the owners that they were there while Peter started walking toward the dumpster.

His partner rejoined him just as he pulled out an unlabeled chemical canister from the depths of the bin. As if he wasn't curious enough about it, he pulled out a second and a third. He twisted one open, and against a part of his brain that told him not to do it, sniffed at the contents. His nose wrinkled with the familiar odor as he held it out for Luke to smell as well.

"Propane?" His partner asked, not recognizing the acrid stench and going mainly off the container in. Rather than tease him about it, Peter just shook his head, closing up the cylinder and putting it on the ground next to the others.

"No. Ammonia." He corrected, looking at the nearest storage unit. He and Lucas shared a look, both their eyes lighting up mischievously as Luke promptly began picking the lock. "Oh, the joys of being a federal agent." Peter teased as he heard the click of the lock undoing. The teasing nature stopped however, when the metal door was raised, revealing what was inside.

It was a crude laboratory, but easily identifiable as one nonetheless. Shelves lined it's perimeter, atop them sat several gas canisters, much like the ones they'd found in the trash. Chemical bottles and specimen jars containing disfigured small animals littered the tabletops and floor. A cooling unit puttered away in the corner, no doubt in an effort to keep the more than a little lethal chemicals from overheating when the unit was closed.

The same 'holy shit' feeling dominating their brains, Luke and Peter went on to prying open the neighboring unit. It was revealed to be another lab, this one filled with vacuum equipment, electron microscopes, radiation suits, and cages containing animals - alive this time - that were mutated and vicious.

"Damn.. How many more of these things are you willing to bet are labs?" Peter grumbled. It turned out that his complaining was more than warranted. They opened unit after unit, nine in all, that contained relatively the same thing. Scientific tools and animals - either alive or dead - that had been disfigured or altered beyond remedy. They almost all housed chemicals that were recognizable as dangerous as well.

"Pete, we're gonna need a chem transport team out here, like now." Luke called out from one particularly frightening unit. Peter, who'd been snooping around one that held countless canisters of at least fifty different gaseous compounds, agreed, volunteering to go make the call to Broyles. A part of him was almost giddy at the thought of being able to shove a find like this in the arrogant man's face. He ventured away from the units, where he couldn't get a signal, and dialed the number.

Meanwhile, Lucas remained in one particular unit, head tilted as he examined a computer monitor on which programs were running, balancing what he recognized to be chemical equations. He stepped around the machine, his gaze moving to a row of scan results hanging from a wire behind it.

Without warning, a loud grating that Luke recognized as another unit opening started up behind him. He thought it was Peter at first, perhaps sifting through another lab, though the second he turned around he realized that the man opening it was clearly not Peter.

"Hey!" He yelled, moving his hand to the gun on his hip as he cautiously stepped out of the unit. Before he could say anything else, though, the man took off running toward the parking lot. Reacting reflexively, Luke took off after him, cursing quietly under his breath as he did so. He rounded a corner, pulling his phone from his pocket and hitting the first number. This was apparently his partner's speed dial, because after the first ring, Peter answered.

"Luke? What-?"

"We've got a runner! He's headed for the back lot!" He practically yelled into the phone, rounding another corner just in time to see the runner whip out of sight.

"On my way." Peter hung up the phone and started running, heading down a path the opposite the way they came, hoping that it would lead to the back lot. He was rewarded when he burst out of the labyrinth into the open. He saw Luke gaining on the subject, closing in, and kept pushing to keep up - until the subject stopped. Instinct told Peter that something was very, very wrong with this. His suspicion was confirmed a second later when the suspect pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number but didn't put it to his ear.

"Luke!" He called out, putting on extra speed, wanting only to stop his partner, because he knew exactly what was about to happen. His partner stopped and turned to look at him with eyebrows raised quizzically. Before he could explain, however, the closest of the sheds detonated suddenly. Lucas was swallowed up by too bright lights from the blast, and then the second one exploded and Peter was hurled to the ground unceremoniously.

He laid on the ground, looking up at the street light above him, pulsating slightly from the explosion. The taste of iron and copper filled his mouth as the world slowly faded to black around him.

* * *

**Well, what do you think of FBI Peter and his partner? I know I didn't describe Lucas too well.. so just picture Ignacio Serricchio. Like it so far? Hate it? Let me know in one of those ever-welcome reviews. Quick question for you guys. I think I'd like to call this Greenverse. Whaddya think? Got any other ideas?**

**Until next chapter my lovelies,**

**~TheFallenArchangel**


	2. St Claire's

**A/N: Welcome to our second chapter of the Greenverse. I hit some writers block about halfway through but managed to get through it well enough to finish the chapter. It's a bit longer than last weeks, and I daresay not as well written, and I may redo it later, but for now I'm satisfied. Did you know that in the original script, Massive Dynamic was actually called Prometheus? Should I keep it as Massive Dynamic or maybe go back to the roots? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**PS: Olivia should come in in either the next chapter or the one after that. Just a warning, I haven't really set how pairings and whatnot or going to go, though it'll probably end with Polivia (though it'll probably be gone about a different way) I've created some alternate histories to a few characters, so there will probably be some Olivia/Charlie moments in the future (the original Fringe pairing I was rooting for), though they can be taken as friendship as well. Anyway, Imma shut up now and let you get to the story. **

* * *

_"Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms"_

_~ Guy de Maupassant _

* * *

Peter slowly faded back into consciousness, opening his eyes, though he immediately closed them again as he was blinded by the too bright lights. Once he adjusted to the fluorescent lighting, he opened them again, looking around the room. It was blatantly obvious that he was in the hospital, the IVs and monitors attached to his skin, as well as the hospital bracelet on his wrist, were evidence enough of that. For a moment, he was unsure of why - he felt fine enough - and then it all came rushing back.

He remembered the storage units, the phone call, chasing the suspect. He recalled calling out for Luke seconds before the explosion, the sickening crack of his head against pavement. The onslaught of sudden memories made him feel dizzy, though he hadn't moved. Apparently, it had raised his heart rate as well, because a moment later, a nurse walked into the room.

"Mr. Bishop, you're awake." She exclaimed with a gentle smile as she approached his bed and checked the monitor and one of the IV bags. "We weren't expecting you to regain consciousness for another few hours." Her voice was kind, and she laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder as she checked his blood pressure, but Peter didn't notice.

"Where's Agent Warren?" He asked suddenly, his head turning sharply to look at her. Her eyebrows raised as she surveyed him, bewildered. "My partner," he reiterated, "He was at the storage unit. In an explosion. Where is he?" The woman just looked at him with an expression he clearly recognized as a cross between pity and sympathy. His stomach twisted nervously- he didn't like that expression.

"Mr Bishop-" she started, speaking calmly as though to soothe him, though the look Peter gave her made her rethink whatever it was she was going to say. "I don't know, he was taken to a different ward." She admitted, her voice still soft. "I can call the doctor, he might know-"

"Then do it." His words were sharper than he intended them to be, and he realized that a second after he said them. The woman's smile faltered for a brief moment, and, though she recovered it a moment later, it didn't reappear fully. "Sorry.." The apology was barely audible, but it seemed be be acceptable, because the nurse patted his arm and paged the doctor.

"It might be awhile, he's in the middle of his rounds." She informed him as she scribbled something on the chart at the end of the bed. He nodded, and watched as the door closed behind her, leaving him alone with only his thoughts and concerns as company.

The doctor, Dr. Reyes, was a short man, early sixties, hispanic, and judging by the bags under his eyes, he'd been on a double shift. He grinned when he walked into the hospital room though, checking what the nurse had written down on the chart that hung on the end of the bed.

"You were very lucky." He commented as he replaced the clipboard. "Your wound's could've easily been-" but again, Peter wasn't the least bit interested in how lucky he was or how bad it could've been. He'd been awake for almost an hour now, and he'd still been given no news on the condition of his partner. Again, he interjected with his inquiry about Lucas. Dr. Reyes frowned, a long sigh pulling from him before he answered.

"In addition to the injuries sustained from the blast, Mr. Warren was exposed to synthetic chemical compounds - Work that was apparently being done in those labs you found." Peter tensed, images flashing through his mind of the disfigured and mangled creatures from the labs, and swallowed roughly to focus himself.

"What sort of compounds?" He asked, already dreading the answer, because now Reyes was giving him the same look of condolence that the nurse had.

"We haven't been able to identify the substance or substances that are affecting him. The CDC has sent in other specialists, but they've never seen anything like what's happening here." the doctor cleared his throat awkwardly, looking down at the chart, but Peter knew he wasn't really reading anything there. "Right now we're doing all we can for him. He's in a medically induced coma and his temperature's been significantly lowered, so as to slow the progress."

"The progress of what?"

"One way to describe it is that he's been infected. But it isn't a virus. It isn't a bacteria. And what it's doing…is most unusual…"

"What's it doing!?" Peter snapped, losing his patience. He wanted to know what was happening, manners be damned.

"His tissue is hardening. And somehow…it's clarifying. His skin's getting to be almost like glass. And it's spreading." The look on his face wasn't what Peter was expecting. He was anticipating the curious scientist, bubbling over a new subject, though Dr. Reyes looked quite the opposite - he looked sad.

"I want to see him."

A few moments and a brief argument with several doctors later, and Peter looked down at his partner, laying perfectly motionless and felt a surge of fury at the man who detonated the bomb. The man who'd caused this atrocity, who'd turned his friend into a quarantine patient.

The doctor was right, areas of Luke's skin - chest, face, neck, face - had become perfectly clear. He could easily see muscle and veins below what should've been skin, like some sort of weird anatomy model. Had it not been his comatose friend, Peter might've found it interesting, though now he could only think about putting the man who did this away. He also wouldn't be too terribly opposed to shooting him either.

* * *

Eleven thirty in the evening found an exhausted Agent Bishop in his office, eyes red, worn from several hours on the computer. He typed a query into the search bar of the inter-agency database before scrolling through and skimming the result, each time apparently deciding that they weren't what he was looking for. Then he sighed before searching another combination of words and repeating the cycle all over again.

**'Medical' 'Infection' 'Tissue' 'Chemical' 'Hardening' 'Clarifying'**

He scrolled through the results: hospital records, physician reports, international medical reports that were of no help to him whatsoever. He was about ready to scroll back up to the top and enter a new set of search terms, when he saw a painfully familiar name that made his breath catch in his throat. Dr. Walter Bishop. Jaw tightening upon seeing his father's name, he clicked the article, eyes flicking over the words both nervously and curiously. As he finished, he scrolled back up to the search bar.

**'Dissolve' 'Flesh' 'Tissue'**

Again, Dr. Walter Bishop. That time though, it was a much longer article, FBI, from 1982. He took a long breath after he finished reading, compartmentalizing the notion that, according to this, he knew practically nothing about the work his father was doing. Toothpaste company his ass. He entered a new group of terms, only to find another piece written by his father. This time, as he scanned through it, he stopped about midway through.

Damn.

He left his office, almost running to the elevator. As the metal doors closed around him, surrounding him with the sound of smooth jazz, he felt the beginnings of dread sewing itself in his stomach. He'd been avoiding this for seventeen years, and yet here he was, about to practically beg for the permission to do it.

He turned into an open office door, his gaze falling upon none other than Agent Broyles, haggard and clearly preparing himself for an all nighter if the coffee on his desk was any indication. Reminding himself to keep his sarcasm in check, he knocked on the door frame as he entered.

"Agent Broyles?" He approached the desk, file in hand, and waited for the response. He was expecting some sort of tired, half assed mocking remark. That's not what he got. At all.

"I seem to recall telling you to go home over an hour ago Bishop." Broyles' voice was heavy, tired, resigned, not at all like he'd had heard over the past three days. The senior agent rubbed a finger along his temple and staved off a yawn before actually looking up at Peter, who set the file down on the desk.

"Well, it's a good thing I didn't, because I've found a connection between the Hamburg flight and what's happened with Agent Warren. His name's Walter Bishop, a scientific researcher from Cambridge, born in 46, Harvard educated, post-grad at MIT and Oxford. Look at the experiments he was doing in the late 70's, early 80's." _The ones that most definitely have nothing to do with toothpaste,_ he couldn't help but to add in his head. There was a touch of pride in his voice as Philip took the file and opened it, looking at the picture of Dr. Bishop with curiosity, obviously not having overlooked the last name similarities.

"Bishop.." He mused, watching as the younger man braced himself for the question he had to have known was coming. "Relative of yours?"

"My father, actually." Peter replied, putting on a crooked smile and infusing his voice with a bravado that Broyles immediately recognized as false, though he let it be for the moment in favor of the consideration of a lead.

"Where did you get this information?"

"Our database – I believe he might have information that could save Agent Warren's life – and maybe shed some light on what happened aboard that plane. According to the articles in our system, he knows a lot things like this."

"Well, also according to these files, he's been institutionalized at St. Claire's for seventeen years now." Broyles pointed out, giving Peter a questioning look that he desperately tried to evade. This was clearly not something he wanted to discuss, though he didn't really have much choice in the matter and nodded.

"Yeah. An assistant of his was killed in his lab -– rumors about him using humans as guinea pigs started to spread. He was charged with voluntary manslaughter but was deemed mentally unfit to stand trial after a psych eval." While he remained calm and kept his expression in control, Peter was cringing on the inside. No way in hell was he ever getting any credibility with Broyles. Ever. Under any circumstances.

"So you're saying our prime suspect's a guy who's been institutionalized for almost two decades? Explain that." he challenged, curious and almost eager for the younger's response.

"We'd need to talk to him first. He might not be a suspect at all, maybe someone got hold of his work-" Before he could finish, he was cut off.

"Why are you so sure your father who, judging by the way you address him, you haven't spoken to since his incarceration, is worth our time?"

"What makes you so sure he's _not_?" Peter responded, sharper than he'd intended, but firm enough to keep from being interrupted. "Sir, with all due respect, I'm coming to you with a solid lead, and seeing how I'm the only person who can get in to see him without a Patriot Act, which is what you'd need to get access, I'm your best shot of getting any information he might just have that can save an agent and give us some answers as to what the hell happened on that plane."

"Uncover something substantial and I'll have your back-– until then, I'm not so convinced. Can you handle that Bishop?"

"Yes. Sir." Peter replied, voice in a cold staccato, though laced with a cocktail of victory, relief, and dread.

* * *

Never had Peter been more thankful for Charlie's presence than he had the following morning on the way to St. Claire's. It was only a forty-five minute drive, but due to the fact that Peter wasn't in the driver's seat, it was, for him, a forty five minute nap.

Though he'd had a few hours to rest the night before, seeing how St. Claire's wouldn't even have full staff until eight AM the next morning, he'd barely slept. He spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, dreading the moment he'd been avoiding for seventeen years. After his father's incarceration, he'd been content, happy even, for the first time that he could remember. Yet he was now preparing to walk right into the mental institution and face it all over again. He had no idea how he was going to do that, if he even could.

Too soon for Peter's liking, Charlie shook his shoulder to wake him as they arrived. He stretched as he got out of the car, yawning, and walked toward the main office, with Charlie right after him. Smiling at the receptionist as he entered the sterile-smelling lobby, he pulled his badge. He sensed rather than saw his colleague do the same beside him.

"Agent Peter Bishop and Charlie Francis." He introduced, replacing his identification. "We're here to see Walter Bishop." The woman blinked at him, staring for a moment before clacking away at her computer keyboard for a minute or two.

"Are either of you immediate family?" She asked in a croaking voice that insinuated a lifetime of smoking. She brushed a bottle red curl back behind her ear as she waited for an answer, looking for all the world like she'd much rather be anywhere else on the planet. Peter had to seriously fight the urge to make some sort of snide remark. Instead, he forced the best smile he could under the circumstances.

"I'm his son." The words seemed to have an impact, because the woman looked dumbfounded for a long moment, like it hadn't even occurred to her that him sharing a last name with the patient he was looking for might be a clue of relation. Then she gave him a yellow toothed smile.

"Well then, I'll need to see your identification again, you'll have to sign in, and if you want your friend to be allowed in, you and him both will have to sign this release."

It took almost fifteen minutes, but finally they were permitted in, one of the orderlies guiding them through the hallways. It wasn't long before they were brought into a big, shiny, sterile cafeteria.

"Hey, you okay?" Charlie asked, seeing how pale Peter had become since they'd entered the building. Now that they'd were actually waiting for Dr. Bishop to be brought into the room, he looked like he was about to fall over. This was new. The younger agent had always been confident around him, calm, like he always knew how to control a situation just the right way. It was what had initially earned him respect from other agents. Now, he looked like a frightened kid.

"Yeah, I'm fine." he muttered, barely audible, as the door swung open and he got the first glance at his father in seventeen years. The doors banged open, and two orderlies escorted the patient in, each with a hand on his shoulder.

He looked unbalanced, wide eyes flicking everywhere and a straw grey beard that screamed a cross between homeless and serial killer. He was dressed in a charcoal grey jumpsuit and, though there were none, he moved his legs and held his arms as one would if they were in chains. The orderlies guided him to one of the seats, before retreating back into the hallways, leaving them alone with the exception of a security guard who stood in the corner, just in case.

Charlie watched Peter carefully. His friend was clearly trying to look impassive, but as he took in the crazy-bearded old man before him, there was a deep seeded vulnerability written all over his face.

The elder Bishop flashed a smile as he looked at them that was some horrible mix between warm and insanely creepy as he spoke.

"I knew somebody would come eventually. I'm just surprised it's taken this long Peter." He tilted his head drastically to the left. "I thought you'd be fatter." Peter loosed a bark-laugh that didn't sound quite human. It was full of disbelief and a weird sort of resentment.

"You thought I'd be fatter. Excellent. First words, perfect." He muttered, sarcastically.

"No, no, as a boy, you were rounder." He tried to explain, like he was defending a perfectly rational statement, not like the first thing he'd said to his son in almost twenty years had been 'I thought you'd be fatter.'

"Yeah, until the summer of my senior year in high school - Not that I'm surprised you don't remem- Hey! What are you doing?" He cried out as Walter moved in close to him, pushing his eyelids up to examine his pupils. "What the hell!?" He yelped, pulling away as Charlie looked to the security guard, who had stepped forward and reached for his taser. Walter however, seemed soothed by whatever it was he saw.

"Your pupils are good- they're good- thank goodness." he declared, like it had been a big worry point for him. He promptly returned to the chair and sat down. "But there must be a reason you're finally here after all these years, so let's get on with it."

"I'm FBI now Walter. I'm just here on business." Peter informed him, sharing a glance with Charlie before they approached the table, each pulling out a seat. By some unspoken decision, Charlie began to recount the case.

"Dr. Bishop," He began, placing the file from the Hamburg flight on the table, "A flight landed at Logan International Airport almost four days ago. Everybody inside the plane was dead."

The minutes ticked by slowly as Charlie and Peter explained what they found within the plane, what Peter had seen within the storage containers. It was a frustrating task, seeing how every few seconds Walter would get distracted by something and it would take a few minutes to get him back on the proper train of thought.

"A-and the dermis, is it already indurated? Translucent? Muscle tissue visible?"

"Yes, Walter, you can see through his skin." Peter replied tersely, clearly losing his patience quickly. "What's happening to him? Can it be reversed?"

Walter looked off in the distance suddenly, a horrified look on his face, like something terrible had just occurred to him.

"What is it?"

"They have this…horrible pudding here. This…butterscotch pudding on Mondays. It's dreadful. Just occurred to me." He replied sadly, shaking his head slightly. Charlie and Peter caught each other's mutual expression of disappointment. This looked like it was going to be a bust. The guy was crazy, he probably wouldn't be able to help. Finally, Charlie sighed.

"Dr. Bishop.. It's Thursday."

"Oh," Suddenly, Walter seemed brighter, like all his problems were suddenly solved. "That's wonderful news!" He looked at the two agents in front of him, seeing the judgement in their eyes. He lowered his head, rocking a little, back and forth, the results of more than fifteen years of shock, drug, and psychotherapy.

"I'm sorry.." He said quietly, fingers fidgeting a little, "That - that I'm like this now. I—-I'm thinking things. Some things don't even make it to my mouth. Some do, though." He paused, still barely looking at either Charlie or his son. "This place… their… choice of therapies.." He looked like he was about ready to cry. "…have consequ — cons — con — consequences."

The guilt was rolling off of Peter in waves. He looked like he wanted to get up and run, get as far away from this place as he possibly could and forget he ever came. Suddenly though, Walter seemed to be back on track, another moment of lucidity.

"It can be reversed. What's happened to your colleague. Years ago I used lab animals. I recall that some became afflicted - but were still saved." He declared, looking almost excited that he could remember such a thing.

"So do you remember what to do?" Peter asked, leaning forward across the table, though trying not to get his hopes up too much.

"If your colleague has been exposed to a compound based on my work, two obvious questions arise." There was a long pause as Walter seemed to consider the two arisen questions, before he deadpanned: "Neither of which I remember."

"Just great." Peter muttered, leaning back in his chair and sighing.

"Doctor Bishop, we need you to try to remember. Someone's life is on the line."

"Access." he declared suddenly, loudly. "How did this individual, who must have significant scientific apprehension, access and then duplicate my work? And why? That's two questions- one and a sub-query. But I do have a third."

"Well what is it?" the younger Bishop snapped, getting ever more frustrated.

"W-w-well..I need to know how advanced your colleague's condition is. I'm n-n-not able to deduce in the absence of first-hand examination — which is to say I must tergiversate."

"You.. what?" Charlie asked, eyebrows raising.

"Leave." Peter muttered. "It's a fancy word for leave."

"I-I must see Mr. Warren myself – which I am unable to do under present law unless signed out by a legal guardian, which can only be a relative."

Peter groaned, looking to Charlie with a torn expression. "Of course." He muttered.

Another forty minutes later, and a clean shaven Walter, dressed in normal clothing, emerged from the hallway. Paperwork done, Peter guided him to the parking lot. The old man looked exhilarated as he left the building, taking several deep breaths in, relishing the fresh air.

"This car is fantastic!" he exclaimed, circling Charlie's car and looking at it from all angles. Charlie's eyes widened as he ducked into the driver's seat. Peter climbed into the passenger seat, while Walter slid into the back seat, grinning like a kid on a field trip.

"Dr. Bishop, I was curious…if anyone else ever had access to your work?" Charlie asked as they exited on to the highway.

"Well…the assistants, they had bits and pieces." Walter replied, tilting his head to the side. "God, I suppose. If you go for that." He paused for a moment, before continuing. "I suppose the only one who really knew what I was doing was Belly."

"Who?" Peter asked, glancing at his father in the rear view mirror.

"Belly. William Bell. He and I shared a lab." He explained. Charlie hit Peter with a_ 'how the holy hell did you not know this'_ look, that Peter responded with a _'how the holy hell did I not know that'_ look.

"William Bell?" Charlie reiterated. "You shared a lab with the founder of Massive Dynamic?"

"Uh.. I don't know what that is." Walter confessed, looking embarrassed.

"Oh nothing, just a little tiny company." Peter muttered sarcastically as Walter began humming 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' in the backseat. It was going to be a long ride.

* * *

**What did you think? Leave it in a review, 'cuz those things are always appreciated. Check out the opening I edited for Greenverse at /watch?v=gqFHJBHTkTw**

**Until next chapter lovelies,**

**~TheFallenArchangel**


End file.
